


The Vein That Bleeds

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean discovers just how much he's willing to give up for the one he loves.</p>
<p>
  <i>Dean didn't need to say anything because, somehow, Cas understood. Obvious in the way Cas touched him, palming his face with both hands. Here, sheltered in his touch, his love, Cas told him they'd be all right without speaking a word.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vein That Bleeds

_“You were the missing piece of my soul, the breath in my lungs, and the blood in my veins.”_  
― J.A. Redmerski, The Edge of Never

 

Dean couldn’t move. He shuddered in the shade, each heartbeat throbbing in his head, making him dizzy. Nauseous. The house loomed in front of him, dark windows for eyes, door _red, red, red_ like a clown's circus grin. It looked dead inside, structurally the same with the colors all wrong. Water-blue siding instead of green; the white trim weathered to a muted gray. His childhood home—except it wasn't.

A bead of anticipation slipped down his spine. He knew what waited for him inside and his gut twisted with it. He took a breath and squeezed his sweaty hands into fists. Something crinkled. Maybe dried leaves. Maybe even behind him. He didn’t bother to look.

The first step was always the hardest, always heavy and full of regret. Weighed down with what could've been, what _should've_ been. He eased out a shaky breath, staring at the hollow-eyed window sockets. 

_You can still run away. Just turn around and it'll be over._

He shook his head, closed his eyes—and took the first step. Hard boots connected with stone. The sound echoed, so loud, so unexpected, that his heart recoiled. He sucked in a startled breath, then laughed it off, ignoring another twist in his gut. The second step was less like lead this time, the third and fourth easier, the sixth building up his courage and chasing away the _what if's_ and _could never be's_. He gained momentum, charging up the pathway, fully prepared to bound up the porch steps, fling open the door and lay siege inside. Like the coward soldier it was, his courage deserted him. He stood there alone on the battlefield and stared. For a moment, he surrendered, allowing his dread to get the better of him.

But only for a moment.

Dean swallowed hard and steeled his jaw. With a sharp exhale, he took the first stair. He shrugged off the itch at the nape of his neck, the ghost-finger of nerves slithering down his back—and took the second one. The third turned into the sixth, and he stood on a river of water-blue paint, the porch solid under his feet. Two rocking chairs, like old brittle skeletons, rocked with the breeze.

The red door— _blood red_ —looked as if it would devour him. But it didn't. The red door’s handle didn’t snap at him with teeth. It was cool beneath his touch, real though he didn’t expect it to be. He turned it slowly, opened the door wide, and peered inside. Dark. A small foyer, chairs and tables, hardwood floors… made out of the dead flat colors of a faded photograph. Drained of life. Quiet. Too quiet. The sounds of his breathing boomed in his ears. Every step a shout instead of a whisper. As he moved further inside, the stale air clung to him. His breath froze in his throat before it ever reached his lungs.

_Get a grip, Winchester._

A dark stairwell led up into darker shadows, hallways and passages branching off the foyer into the unknown. To his right, the formal dining room with large windows, curtains drawn tight. Dark like the rest of the house yet the only room that had any promise of hope to it. With a held breath, he forced himself through and faced the dead-gray hallway on the other side. It led straight. His instincts told him to march down the hall, search every room as if it’d been any other case. Or simply turn around and leave the way he’d come in. He stood there instead, stuck to the carpet like a fly in a flytrap—until a quiet hum set him free.

_Hey, Jude_ , sweet and soft—and a little off-key.

It took his breath away.

He smiled, leaning his head against the dining room's archway. He didn't move. Just listened. He tried to imagine the face that belonged to the voice... and barely could. Years had dulled the details, dust coating each smile, every memory. He had to see for himself, he had to remember. Despite himself, despite the little voice in the back of his head—

_Don't go in there._

—despite _everything_ telling him not to, he followed the tune, led by the nose. The soft humming personified in the kitchen and an explosion light and color—yellow walls, white cabinets, light-blue table and chairs—almost blinded him. A silhouette stood against the brightness, near the window. Familiar, the details becoming clearer as sunlight receded behind a cloud. Dark hair, blue eyes. A smile that made his heart sing. Dean took a single breath. Held it. Didn't let go—he'd never let go again. Because he was here, right in front of him. He was _here_.

"Hello, Dean."

He exhaled harshly, letting out all of his strength in one go—dizzy and in need of support. He leaned against the kitchen's doorjamb and stared. Cas cocked his head to the side like he always did, stared right through him like he always had. His skin healthy and sun-kissed, his body strong and able. He'd almost forgotten how blue his eyes were. Filled with concern now because Dean took a stumbled step forward.

"Dean," Cas said. "Are you all right?"

That voice... Dean nodded dumbly, taking another staggering step. He unflexed his fingers and the sound of something dropping to the floor never made it to his ears—not before he was inches from Cas. Touching him, cupping his face and brushing thumbs across cheekbones, just to make sure he was real. Cas opened his mouth—and never had the chance to speak a word. Dean smothered him in a kiss, deep and desperate, as if it were the last thing he'd ever do. He'd drown himself in Cas' arms, his skin, touch him and worship him until he couldn't breathe. But Cas wouldn't have it, pushing him out to arm's length and staring. Questioningly.

"Dean?"

He traded in an explanation for a tight hug, burying his face into Cas' neck. For a while, Cas held on too, even though his whole body asked _what?_ and _why?_ with growing tension. The particulars could wait forever. All he wanted to do was stand there, holding him, until the world fell apart around them. "I've missed you." — _so much_.

 

"But, you were only gone fifteen minutes."

It was Dean's turn to push him back a step, to find Cas' gaze angled at the floor. Dean looked over a shoulder and down. White-plastic shopping bags with _Speedy Stop Convenience_ stared up at them.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Only fifteen minutes."

"Dean, are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine, Cas." Dean looked him over again, for the hundredth time. "Never been better."

"Good."

The sudden absence of Cas' skin against his own hollowed him out. Cas had pulled away to bustle around the kitchen almost as if he were in a hurry, pulling out two brown paper bags—lunches?—from the refrigerator. Then, he dashed into the other room, only to appear in the kitchen doorway again with a frown on his face; one shoe on, one shoe off. Expecting something—from _him_. He must be missing a vital clue. He was a planet out of orbit.

"Aren't you going to get ready?"

"For what?" 

He still couldn't believe he was _here_.

"The shop, Dean."

"The shop..." he echoed.

"Yes, where we _work_." Blank look. "Dean, it was your dream. You wanted to settle down and open a shop where you could spend your days under the hoods of old cars."

"Oh." A mechanic. "Right. The shop."

As Cas continued to flutter around like a worried bee, he just stood there, unable to control the rising panic in his chest. As if Cas leaving the house meant he'd lose him forever. Cas didn't make it past him the second time. Dean grabbed his trailing arm and pulled him close to his chest, kissing his forehead. 

"Dean—"

"Let's skip it today, stay here. We can watch old, shitty movies and eat popcorn. Loads of it. We can even salt-and-butter it the way you like it," he mumbled against his skin.

"We have responsibilities—"

"Fuck responsibilities," he said. "Movies—or we could stay in bed all day."

"Dean, we can't."

"Yes, we can." Cas tried to slip out of his grasp, but Dean held on tight. "Cas, listen to me... I need you... to stay with me. Okay? Just for today. We can be responsible tomorrow. Just—please. Do this for me."

The tension in Cas' shoulders melted away and he could almost feel his defenses crumbling. With a quiet exhale, Cas nodded against his lips and said, "Just today.”

Dean found himself grinning—for the first time in years. He pointed at Cas. “Popcorn duty. I’ll pick out the—“

“I have a better idea.”

Cas dragged him out of the kitchen by the hand, through the formal dining room, and up the long staircase. Dean didn't complain, only smiled down at their entwined fingers. At the top of the stairs, more hallway and light-blue carpet, stretching and twisting further into the house. Not as dark or as dead up here, not with Cas beside him—Cas who seemed to give everything life just by being _here_. Breathing.

They passed the doorway of a particularly large… bedroom. Theirs, probably. Gigantic bed with more than enough room for two. Simple headboard, two nightstands. Nothing out of the ordinary except for the butt of a shotgun, peeking out from under the bed. Just in case. Always _just in case_. Dean paused at the doorway—then jerked forward as Cas kept going, past their bedroom to the end of the hallway. They stopped in front of a nondescript door. Ordinary white. Normal, but special enough to make Cas tense up beside him; their bodies close and warm. Dean looked at him. Cas stared at the door, taking a deep breath. Obviously nervous for some reason.

Cas flashed him a tight-lipped smile and opened the door, leading him inside with a tug. The pink carpet squished under his feet, the walls a lighter shade of the same color. Just below the white crown molding, a border of yellow flowers. Hand-painted. Needlessly intricate. No furniture. Nothing to tell him what the room was for. Their eyes met. There was something in Cas' blue eyes right then and it was beautiful. Hope, maybe. Alive and real. He stared at him, unable to help himself. Cas’ face fell.

“You don’t like it,” Cas stated.

“What?”

“The room.”

Dean tore his eyes away from him. Pink everywhere. A mural of sorts started on one of the walls. Maybe a garden motif if the twisty grass was any indication, the outline of a butterfly on the beginnings of a purple flower. “Uh, what’s it for?”

Cas steeled his jaw and looked away, down to plush carpet. “I thought you wanted this.”

“What is _this_?”

“It’s all you’ve been talking about for the past three months, Dean.”

“Okay.”

“You said you wanted to start a family together.” His voice had softened, breaking over _family. Together._ Then, it dawned on him. Family together. Starting one. 

“Kids?”

Cas didn’t move. Hell, he barely breathed.

_Shit._

“I can repaint it—“

“No, fuck, no.” _Kids._ The word fried his brain. “It’s… _awesome_." Dean traced a finger over the butterfly outline. “Did you do... _all_ of this by yourself?”

Cas nodded.

Dean whistled low, looking at the ceiling, the flower border—everything done in perfect detail. Dean waved a finger around. “You might have to add some bugs or—snakes or something in here.”

Cas frowned—that perplexing, soul-searching frown. Confused more than irritated.

“In case it’s a boy. Hell, even if it’s a girl,” Dean added. “Our girl will probably hold a shotgun better than you.”

_Our girl_.

That made Cas smile— _our girl_. Bright and wide. Breathtaking. Enough to make him forget how to think or breathe. _Our girl_. His Cas. His chest filled with warmth and outlined-butterflies. Cas must have felt it, too, because he hugged him hard. They held each other for a long time, surrounded by pink, yellow flowers and butterflies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy—if he’d ever been this happy.

:::

For most of the morning and early afternoon, they watched shitty movies. Cas devoured fistfuls of butter-salted popcorn with slick, messy fingers. Dean watched him more than the screen, his heart fluttering when Cas laughed, his stomach twisting when Cas stole a glance at him.

“You’re staring,” Cas had said. “Watch the movie.”

He didn’t. He watched Cas instead. When Cas got up, Dean grabbed his arm tight and didn’t let go. Cas looked at his white-knuckled fingers, then his face, whispered, “Gotta refill this,” and shook the popcorn bowl. Only then did he have the courage to let Cas go.

:::

They’d decided they couldn’t live on popcorn and shitty movies. Late afternoon came around with the growl of bellies and the aches of sitting too long. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean said. “Go for a drive.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

:::

The Impala was just as he’d left her, black curves shiny as the day Dad had bought her a past-ago. She welcomed him with the groan of leather, the roar of her engine and her smooth ride. They drove to anywhere, with Cas riding shotgun and the wind blowing through the open window. Cas formed a ball of air in his long fingers like some superhero, smiling when a blast of pine invaded their little space. The winding road took them away, somewhere rural, past civilization and worry. 

They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. 

For them, being together was enough.

:::

After burgers and cokes at a diner, they ended up stopping at a scenery overlook, facing west. The sun streaked fire across the sky, reds and oranges too beautiful to look away from. Beside him, Cas sighed and rested his head on his shoulder, so close that it made him ache. Long fingers traced a lazy line down his arm and his touch burned like the sun, leaving a scar that would never heal; a scar he'd bear willingly if he could have him like this; next to him. _Here_. Warm, not cold. Blue eyes open, not closed. Moving, talking. Breathing.

“It’s so beautiful,” Cas whispered. 

Dean leaned in, pressing his lips against Cas' temple. More beautiful was the way Cas smiled right then, the way the sun touched his face, the way their fingers were entwined. Dean brushed a thumb over the back of his hand and it pulled another smile from Cas' mouth. He'd make him smile forever. No matter what the cost.

He issued a small breath and gripped Cas' hand tightly. As if it were some sort of silent signal between them, Cas lifted his head up and looked at him. Concern murdered the smile on his face. "Dean?"

"Are you happy?"

He blurted the question out, though not really wanting to hear the answer. If he was unhappy in some way, if he didn't truly want to be here with him—

"Of course, I am, Dean." Cas squeezed his hand. "I've never been happier."

He blew out a sigh of relief, then nodded. Cas brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he lied. Dean licked his lips. "Has this life— _our_ life," he corrected. "Has it always been good? 

Cas dropped his eyes to his mouth. For a moment, something flashed over his expression. Regret? Sadness? He couldn't tell. Before he could solve the puzzle, Cas leaned his head on his shoulder again. Took a breath and said, "We've had our moments of sadness, Dean. We've lost just like others have. Had our joys. But—" Cas squeezed his hand again. "You've always been good to me. Always. You've never let me down, or—abandoned me. You've always been there." Cas smiled into his shoulder. "So, yes, our life has always been good. Our life _is_ good. We have the shop, we have each other..." His sentence trailed off. Cas took a deep breath. "—and we'll have our girl soon."

"Our girl," Dean echoed, smiling into his dark hair. "You're going to spoil her rotten, you know."

"Me?" Cas straightened his posture, feigning offense. "If anyone's going to spoil her, it'll be you."

"Psh. That's bullshit."

Cas smiled wide again, warmer than the sun, then snuggled in close as the sky burned and smoldered. The wind whistled through, then snapped at their back, blowing leaves in little hurricanes and kicking up dirt. Something prickled at the base of his spine. Something—terrible.

"What do you think we'll name her?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer. Thunder curled out from under his teeth like a snake, devouring any words he could've said. His gut twisted with another peal of thunder, his heart convulsing as if it'd been struck by lightning. Dean looked over a shoulder. Storm clouds, thick and dark, polluted the sky, taking all the color with them. Far enough away for now yet too close for comfort.

“We gotta go.”

"Why? Dean—”

“We have to go _now_.”

They sped down the rural highway as night swooped in like a vulture, picking at the bones of their perfect life. Stripping away the comfort, the happiness, gnawing on the fragile skin of their future. Piece by piece, their world would crumble around them, like it always had. The other shoe would drop, just like it always did. Dean sucked in a breath and took a tight turn, then sped up. Faster, faster. They had to get away. Far away.

Behind them, the storm continued to rage, barreling toward them on a furious wind. Dean swerved to catch a bend in the road and Cas grunted, pressed up against the passenger side, holding on. _Slow down_ and _You're going too fast!_ washed over him, settling in with the darkness in the rearview mirror. He didn't slow down, but sped up instead, recklessly taking another turn. The steering wheel shuddered under his hands and the back end of the car lost traction, fishtailing the wrong way. There was a horrible sound of tires squealing, then Cas' scream. His ears rang with it, bringing him back to a nightmare he'd had—since as long as he could remember. Cas screaming. Blood, so much blood. Then nothing. Years of nothing. No salt-and-buttered popcorn. No smiles. Nothing in the way of his soft skin, his blue eyes lighting up when he saw him. No future. Nothing. 

Years and years of emptiness. 

Dean blinked back the nightmare. The Impala stood motionless in the middle of the road, the light pitter-patter of rain sprinkling her windshield. She was whole. He was whole. And Cas—Dean gasped and jerked his head over. Cas sat there, plastered against the passenger side door, with his blue eyes wide. Impossibly wide. Scared shitless. But otherwise whole and safe and— _here_.

"Dean?"

"You're all right, Cas," he whispered, holding out his hand. "You're fine. I'm here."

Cas grabbed his hand and gripped it hard, his whole body trembling. Dean kissed the back of his hand and let go, turning the engine over. She started with an angry, chastising growl—a flash of lightning answered back with a hiss of thunder. Cas grabbed his forearm and when Dean looked at him, it was the worry on his face that made him pause. 

"We gotta get home, Cas, okay? We gotta get home now."

If he could just beat the storm, they'd be all right. They'd be safe—until it caught up with them. Lightning flashed in the rearview mirror again, thunder rolling in the dark clouds like a warning. The Impala roared when he gunned it, pushing her to the limits. She squealed. Beside him, Cas closed his eyes and prayed.

When they made it home, the sky had just begun to darken with the promise of storm clouds. The soulless black windows gaped at them, the _red, red, red_ door grinning as if it knew danger was coming. Loose branches littered the roof and the lawnmower soldier had been blown across the yard, trapped against the white picket fence. The wind had come, spewing leaves and tossing their rocking chairs aside as if it were a delinquent child. The elm trees groaned. The house was dead. 

Dean didn't waste any time. Once out of the car and into the clean night air, he grabbed Cas' wrist and pulled him toward the house that looked like his childhood home but not, to the pathway leading to the steps and porch. Inside, they'd be safe—a lie he told himself as every porch step groaned under his boots, as he flung open the door and yanked Cas inside. The door slammed shut with the help of the wind. The sound was one of finality.

"Dean, what's going on?"

"Bad storm coming," Dean said, pulling him up the stairs—to anywhere. Their bedroom. Cas twisted on his wrist, trying to get free, but Dean just held on tighter. Tighter until Cas hissed in protest.

The hallway stretched on for an eternity, growing longer as he gained ground, just like a bad dream. "You're hurting me," Cas whispered beside him. It fell on deaf ears as Dean thundered through the top floor, Cas in tow. When he reached their bedroom, he flung the door open. Shadows hung on the ceiling, lurked in the corners. Dean flipped on the light switch. Nothing.

"I'll go find some candles—"

"No time for that," he said, yanking him close. 

Dean kissed him. Cas murmured something against his lips, struggling to get out of his grasp. Yelped as fingers bruised, as his mouth was crushed to the point of abuse. Dean didn't let go, couldn't. The storm was coming. The storm—

"Dean," Cas growled, pushing him away. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Cas, I need you to—" A breath. "I have to—"

"Stop," Cas snapped. "Dean, talk to me."

"There's no time."

"Dean—"

Dean grabbed him by the arms, shaking him. "Cas, you need to listen to me. I need you... _right now_. It can't wait..."

Cas stared at him, his blue eyes black in the dark. Studying him. Sorting through his broken pieces. "What are you afraid of?"

_Everything—of losing you._

Dean didn't need to say anything because, somehow, Cas understood. Obvious in the way Cas touched him, palming his face with both hands. Here, sheltered in his touch, his love, Cas told him they'd be all right without speaking a word. With a quiet sigh, Dean fell against him and they held each other for a long time. The wind whipped against the windows, but he didn't care, not with Cas kissing him on the neck like this, so soft and gentle. Dean leaned into him and swept a fingers along the curve of his spine. He abandoned pinches and bruises, adopted the soft brush of fingers and barely-there kisses. Along his neck, up to his earlobe. Cas let out a sigh and melted against him, kissing him on the lips as if this alone could glue him back together and make him whole—and it did. For a moment, he was complete. Without bruises and holes, without regrets and fears. _Here_. 

A crack of thunder broke him apart. 

Dean took in a sharp breath and held tight. So tight he thought he might break him, that he'd be left to hold his shattered body in his arms. Hold him until his last breath, until his eyes glossed over. No smiles. Nothing. Just years and years of emptiness. 

Cas didn't try to get away this time. He just stood there, holding him, stroking his back until the tension in his muscles disappeared. Then brought him back down to Earth with another kiss, their mouths molded together like they were always supposed to fit. 

They kissed their way to the bed blindly, falling back on it with in a tangle of sheets. Dean spread his hand wide over Cas' stomach, slipping fingers under his shirt. Cas groaned as he thumbed a nipple, arched his back as Dean nosed his neck, kissing him there with just a little bit of teeth. A noise of his own shot of out his mouth as Cas grabbed his hard cock, squeezing it gently over the rough fabric of his jeans. Dean rocked into his hand, pushing his hips against the friction, needing more. Always more. Cas knew, too, how much he needed and how he needed it—hard and incessant. Skin-on-skin contact or nothing at all.

When Cas' hand touched the head of his cock—Dean forced his mouth away from Cas' neck and groaned, head pressed hard into the mattress because it felt... so fucking _good_. Cas worked it with his long fingers, slipping them down his length in firm, fluid strokes. Another moan. A peal of thunder. Dean jerked his hips forward with the sound, letting out a gasp somewhere between dread and pleasure. Faster than he could keep up with, Cas unzipped his jeans and fisted his cock, pumping it hard, switching between long full-length strokes, and the ones that just barely fit over the head. Dean bucked again with another snap of thunder, grabbing onto Cas' hair and pulling it tight. Cas groaned against his ear, the sinful sound telling he liked it rough. He always had. The pain made him feel human, he had said once. Human and alive. _Here_.

Cas thumbed the slit and Dean could've let loose right there. Could, but didn't want to. Not like this. Dean grabbed his hand and pulled it away, ignoring Cas' whimper. "Stop," he panted into his neck. "I need you... please."

They kissed as the rain started coming down, light against the windows. They left their clothing behind in a cyclone of bits and pieces, the damage scattered along the floor. Pressed skin-to-skin, they explored each other with kisses, mapping curves and bumps with fingers. Dean kissed him hard while his hand stumbled around the nightstand, finding a familiar bottle, flipping open the cap with a thumb. He greased himself down without a thought, his fingers wet and searching. Cas spread his legs then arched his back when the first finger went in, gentle and sweet. Moaned with the second and shuddered when Dean fucked him with them. A flash of light illuminated him; Cas spread out under him, eyes blown wide with sex, his mouth open with another groan. The thunder— _shook_ the house, made Dean gasp out loud. Fear destroyed him from the inside out. 

"Cas—"

Cas answered with a kiss, grabbing his hips and pulling them into him. Dean responded by grabbing his own cock, positioning, then plunging in. Cas let out a sharp breath, but that was all. As the rain slapped against the windows, the roof, as the thunder roared, Dean took and took, thrusting over and over again. Eventually, Cas stopped grunting in pain and groaned with each jerk of his hips, louder as he got closer and closer to the end. He'd spend his last moments like this, wrapped in Cas' arms and hot inside him, pulling out groans and whimpers, and cries out of his throat. He'd use his last breath to whisper Cas' name, then he'd let go. He'd die in his arms and his eyes would gloss over. Then nothing. No future. No smiles. 

Nothing.

Cas fell apart under him, yelled out his name as the storm settled in overhead. Somewhere, in all the chaos, Cas let go and for the first time in his life, he found purpose. Making Cas happy, seeing him smile—that was what he wanted out of his life. For as long as he could have it. Another spark of lightning and a hiss of thunder reminded him how short life could be.

_Dean?_

He closed his eyes as tight as he could, as if wishing it away meant the end couldn't touch him. When he opened his eyes, Cas was still there, tracing his cheekbone with a finger. Dean smiled when Cas smiled. They studied each other for an eternity. This would be the last moment they'd ever have together. 

Lightning. Thunder.

_Dean!_

He brushed the backs of his fingers across Cas' face. Cas smiled again, weakly, his eyes drooping because he was falling asleep. Dean kissed his forehead and closed his eyes. Lingering there for as long as he could. When he broke the kiss, Dean rested his chin on Cas' forehead. A tear slipped down his cheek. He wouldn't let Cas see it.

"Dean..."

"Go to sleep, Cas," he whispered.

"Will you... still be here when I wake up?" 

"Yeah." His voice broke over the word. "Of course."

Dean kissed his forehead again and leaned a cheek in a bed of dark hair. Stayed there until Cas' breathing leveled, until it slowed, until he fell asleep in his arms. Only then could he admit to himself—that he'd lied. 

_Will you still be here when I wake up?_

_I don't know, Cas. It depends._

_Depends on what?_

"The storm."

It thundered overhead, rain beating down on the roof like fists. Threatening to break through shingle and wood, to rip apart the peaceful life they'd made for themselves; the _lie_ they were caught in. Dean closed his eyes. Lightning cracked the sky. Thunder boomed. 

_Dean._

_Wake up._

:::

"Dean!"

Sam shook his shoulders, drawing no response out of his brother. Still slack in the old arm chair, a ring of bruises around his wrists where handcuffs met flesh. Eyes half-opened. All-white. His skin pale. Too pale.

"I'm going to get you out of here." 

He snatched the tiny key from the small table, getting as far as sticking the piece of metal in the key hole when he stirred. Dean took in a ragged breath. His head didn't move. His eyes didn't look. But his mouth opened, saying nothing at first. Then...

"... Sammy."

"Dean! I'm here. I'm gonna get you outta here and we're gonna go home, all right?"

Sam turned the key and one of the handcuffs clicked—

"... stop."

Sam looked up, confused. The dream. It had to be the dream. He grabbed his brother's shoulders again and squeezed. "Dean, it's me, Sam. You need to wake up. We're going home."

"... stop."

"He doesn't want you to save him," said the other voice in the room. "I... told you already."

Sam threw a glare over his shoulder. His brain quickly catalogued the damage—the red door with a hole through it, the overturned tables and chairs—before his eyes fell on the man in the corner. Black pupils and irises. Shaved head. Young twenties. Tattoos crawling down his bare arms, to the broken hand he nursed.

"Told you he came to _me_ ," the djinn said. "Said he wanted to see someone."

"Be quiet."

"Bleed him over several days, he said. Make him last as long as possible," he chuckled. "And if you came, he said I needed to stop you. Look what good that did me."

"Shut up," Sam snapped.

"... Sam."

Sam turned to his brother, gripped his forearms. "Yeah, I'm here, Dean."

"... let go... I need you—to let me go."

He bowed his head, then shook it, closing his eyes to block him out. 

"... Sammy."

"Dean," he growled out. "I can't do that. You can't—" Sam swallowed hard. "You can't ask me to do that."

Sam watched him for a long time. Frowned when Dean didn't say another word. He tossed a murderous look at the djinn and then turned back to Dean, shaking him again. No response. His heart thudded in his chest. If Dean was somehow gone already, if he'd died—

"... you should see him, Sam," Dean whispered. "He's so..." 

:::

"... beautiful," Dean said, brushing fingers against Cas' cheek. "Five years, Sammy. It's been five.. long years."

_You have to come home, Dean._

"No, I don't. You know that." Dean steeled his jaw, running his hand through Cas' dark hair. "I'm happy, Sam. For once in my life..."

_Dean, it's not real. You know it's not real._

"I don't care," he snapped. "I... I can't do this anymore, Sammy. Hunting, pretending... I'm so.. _tired_." He took a deep breath and let it all out. "So tired."

The rain was the first to go, dying down to a quiet sprinkle against the windows. Then the wind. It didn't shake the glass anymore, but whistled through the trees instead. The storm, its thunder and lightning... distant. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, almost... watchful, curious. It was quiet. Peaceful.

The house wouldn't come down around their ears.

"Sammy? We're going to start a family." Dean smiled, watching Cas sleep. "A little girl. You'd like the nursery. Pink and yellow flowers. Cas did it all himself." He placed his ear to Cas' chest. His heartbeat thrummed a quiet, happy tune. "... our girl."

_Dean... if I do this..._

_I'm not leaving you. I'm going to stay here until..._

"That's okay, Sammy. You stay there," he whispered. "I'm going to be here when he wakes up."

There'd be everything. Salt-and-buttered popcorn, smiles. Years and years of happiness.

A future.

_Here_.


End file.
